


Lacrimosa

by thecookiemomma



Series: Requiem for a Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These days, John Watson hates the sound of the violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacrimosa

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, be aware. This is not my normal style at all.

These days, John Watson hated the sound of the violin. Its shimmering sweetness made his soul ache, his eyes burn, his hands shake. A jaunty tune made him smile for half a moment before memory would strike, then he moved on, having to turn away to hide the wetness in his eyes. A mournful tune – when the world was cruel enough to throw one in his path – a mournful tune had the potential to shake him down to the soul.

 

One day, the overhead music in the surgery played a long, slow dirge, and Doctor John Watson, war-hardened veteran of the RAMC, froze like a raw recruit. His nurses looked up at him with confusion until a particularly aware young lady listened, and closed her eyes in understanding.

 

“Turn the damn music off, Mick.” She nodded to the orderly outside. The poor boy had no clue, but to his credit, he obeyed without question. The blissful silence gave him the seconds he needed to regain his composure, then he gave Sheila a grateful nod and continued with the procedure as though nothing had happened.

 

“It was bloody awful, is what it was,” John complained to Greg that night at a pub. The two had taken to meeting for drinks now and again, keeping their friendship alive without the strong, vibrant link that had led them to meet.

 

“I get that,” Greg replied. “Saw a pair of eyeballs the other day in the Morgue, and damn if I didn't laugh my arse off. Got the strangest looks from the new guy.” John smiled, though he knew it felt false. Both of them wore masks now, never exposing their raw pain to the imbeciles around them who couldn't see it even if they did look. John shook his head and drained his pint.

 

“Think I'll head back up to the flat. I'm beat.”

 

“Night, John.” Greg saluted him with his drink.

 

“Ta.” John roused himself, grabbing the cane he now used – knowing full well it was a sign of his grief instead of injury – and stepped out to hail a cab.

 

He'd tried dating; one woman wanted him to take her to a symphony. That was _right_ out, of course. One cannot have a proper symphony without a violin. He couldn't explain it to her, so she left in a huff. Another thought she would be doing him a favor by cleaning up the flat a bit. He came home to find all of the knickknacks in boxes. When he lovingly dusted them and set them right back where they'd been, she left too. After a couple more tries, and a couple more realizations that something was wrong, John gave up entirely. Mary, Molly and Mrs. Hudson gave him sympathetic looks that made him want to scream, but he kept silent. 

 

Nothing felt right. Nothing fit. Until he heard it: a low hum of a violin that didn't set his teeth on edge. It was a street player, playing a sad, quiet tune. He sat down, arranging his purchases from Tesco's around him, and sighed. The player was a stone's throw away, so he couldn't make much out about him, and didn't really care to. He closed his eyes, listening to the slow, sad tune, letting the tears run unashamedly down his face. He'd never felt this deeply before, and had not realized the depths of his own emotions until the man was long gone. 


End file.
